


The Sword That Presses Heavily on the Heart

by apothekemilie



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Royalty, The Skellige Isles (The Witcher), cursed sword, weirdo skelligans and their bizarre traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apothekemilie/pseuds/apothekemilie
Summary: Geralt finds himself in a spot of trouble when he unearths a blessed (or is it cursed?) sword that binds him to one of the Skelligan Isles to rule as jarl. Jaskier is there to make jokes about it. Roach eats a curtain.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #004





	The Sword That Presses Heavily on the Heart

_Contract: Legendary Sword Missing_

_Kaer Mwrrach’s familial sword of legend, Stormguard, has gone missing from the keep. It is believed to be found within the waters along the north eastern side of the isle. The warrior who can return it to its home will find honor and great reward in the domain._

_Be warned: many have tried and all have failed to recover this missing blade. Lungs of a whale will be needed for any hope of success._

* * *

The contract, written in a rough scrawl on yellowed, waxy paper had been posted all over the island. Geralt had seen at least four separate notice boards with the plea pinned beneath several other trivial announcements.

Jaskier had apparently noticed too because by the time they came across the fifth board, he plucked it from the cork, wriggling his fingers free of the edges of the paper which crumbled to dust beneath his touch.

“You’ve been ignoring this one. It’s, what, the tenth or twelfth one we’ve seen? It’s at least worth checking out.”

“I’m a monster hunter, Jaskier. I don’t go on scavenger hunts.”

“Oh yeah? What about all of that fuss over finding the diagrams for your fancy pants witcher gear, huh? What would you call that?”

“Getting better at staying alive.” Geralt turned to steer himself and Roach away from the board.

“Fair, fair, right…”Jaskier followed, still clutching the paper. He folded it delicately into a square, which he placed in his pants pocket. “But still, it might be worth just checking out. We’re headed toward where we might be able to find it anyway, right? What do you say to a little dip in the pond, huh? A little water never hurt anyone.”

“Ever heard of ‘drowning’?”

“Stop being boorish, Geralt, you know what I mean!”

The two went on their way, conveniently in the direction of the sword, and eventually made camp for the evening on a cozy bluff overlooking the sea. The pair was high enough up that there was no shoreline for monsters to come crawling from, but low enough that a fall into the water wouldn’t hurt particularly badly.

Jaskier chose to spend his evening’s composition session throwing playful jabs at Geralt, implying a fear of water or swimming. He was in the middle of a fun line, rhyming “doggy paddle” with “horse’s saddle” when Geralt walked away from the fire.

He knew what Jaskier was trying to do, but he’s a witcher. He didn’t go chasing swords that were supposedly thrown in the sea. He wasn’t about to throw himself into pitch black, probably cold, definitely drowner infested water just to find a stupid blade. Even if it was real, it was probably rusted to hell and back by now. 

Geralt watched the water. The sun had very nearly finished setting, but the moon had jumped into place earlier than normal. He could see both dots of light reflecting on the water and back toward him. 

He squinted. This was the northeastern edge of the island, and the sun was well behind him, his figure casting a long shadow into the deep.

The golden dot he was seeing was something from _below_ the water. It was far enough away that it couldn’t have been seen by a normal human’s eyes, but definitely within swimming range for a witcher.

He thought to walk away, if for no other reason than to spite Jaskier. Jaskier, who was busy writing a song about him not knowing how to swim beyond a doggie paddle “Or is it a wolf paddle?” He had laughed just a little too close to mockingly. Fuck Jaskier and his dreams of a fancy swords at the bottom of the sea.

Then again, gold could also mean coin, something he was always in short supply of. Ships sank all the time along Skelligan shores, often with gold and other valuables on board. 

_Fuck it. Might as well. Coin is coin, and there’s no way it could be a fucking sword anyway._

The cliff edge where he currently stood wouldn’t be too hard to climb back up, so Geralt stripped to his pants and held tight to his crossbow which would take care of anything that might be swimming down there.

He was wrong in thinking the water would be cold. It was _fucking freezing_. Just because he got used to the temperature quickly didn’t mean he liked it, but at this point he might as well prolong the misery a little bit longer. He tried to follow the shimmering fleck of gold, which was misleadingly far from land and a little too deep even for witcher comfort, but hell. Now that he was here, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to dive. 

It took several tries, first and foremost, because, as he figured, the waters were infested with drowners. Sure they were killed easily enough, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed doing it.

Secondly, the damn sword seemed like it had been lodged between two stones. Less like it harmlessly fell into the water and more like it was projected in. Geralt grabbed the hilt and planted his feet firmly on each side. It eventually loosened then popped free.

Back on land, soaked to the bone and very nearly cold enough to shiver, Geralt examined the thing more closely. It was a fine enough sword with a hilt of pure gold and a bear’s head pommel. The blade was a gold-steel alloy, it seemed, but Geralt wasn’t enough of a metallurgy expert to guess much more. Fine enough sword though.

He dropped it at Jaskier’s feet with a muted thud before the bard could even look up from his notebook where he’d been penning new lyrics.

“We’ll take it to Kaer Mwrrach in the morning and then get the hell out of Skellige.”

Jaskier smiled the same sly, goofy grin he gave upon learning that Geralt enjoyed lemon cakes more than any other food. Thank whatever fate was out there that it was too dark for Jaskier to see the red flushing Geralt’s ears. 

“Now was it so hard to find?” He teased.

“Fuck off, bard. I’m going to sleep, and in the morning it’s going home.”

“Of course, of course. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Geralt changed into a new pair of small clothes before he hung up his pants to dry. He left his shirt on but neatly folded his chest armor and put it by his gauntlets and boots.

Falling asleep with wet hair wasn’t his favorite way to drift off, but he managed well enough.

Come morning, the light of dawn slowly roused him back. He could hear soft shuffling and muffled voices. Non-Jaskier voices, more exactly.

Also, in the realm of ‘more exactly,’ Geralt became acutely aware of the fact that he was not lying on his bedroll but was instead on top of the comforter of a very plush bed with cold metal set upon his chest. Looking down, he saw that it was the sword he’d pulled from the ocean, resting perfectly down his torso with the pommel to his chin.

Geralt grabbed the hilt and tore himself from the bed, which groaned under the motion far louder than he would have expected.

He stood with bare feet on a plush fur rug and took stock of his surroundings. He was definitely in a bedroom, but the place didn’t seem lived-in. There weren’t any personal items strewn about or any sorts of art on the walls. It was bare.

Geralt also felt a bit more than bare himself, still in only his small clothes and undershirt as he had been the night before. 

He tried to think. What was the last thing he remembered? Had he been attacked and then rescued? No, he clearly remembered falling asleep after tossing the sword in his hand at Jaskier’s feet.

What kind of sorcery was this then? His medallion was still, unmoving on his chest. Whatever magic that brought him here was gone.

Still, Geralt needed to get out, preferably undetected.

He looked to the sword. It was old and definitely needed care, but it would have to do the job for the time being, if necessary.

The window was the first option of escape, but upon first glancing outside, Geralt was dismayed to see that it was a pretty clear drop dozens of feet into the rocky water.

Only escape was the door then.

Geralt gripped the sword tightly, holding it in a defensive position as he listened to the outside.

There were soft voices speaking, mostly just what sounded like servants shooting the breeze as they bustled along. Other than that, nothing.

He waited for the sounds to quiet down before slipping out.

It took all of 20 seconds before someone caught him sneaking along the corridor.

The maid who saw him shrieked, whether at him or his nakedness, he wasn’t sure, but Geralt bolted away as fast as he could, making a mad dash down the stairs.

He was flying blind in whatever castle this was supposed to be, startling servants left and right, but it was only when he came to a courtyard filled with burly men that anyone thought to give chase.

It was also in this courtyard where Geralt was thoroughly caught. The warriors had him surrounded, weapons and shields brandished, so Geralt raised the golden sword and donned a fighting stance.

As it glinted in the morning sun, each of the warriors looked to it, dazed and a little alarmed, before slowly lowering their weapons and kneeling before a very confused Geralt.

He stood back up to his full height, lowering the sword, when one of the men spoke from his kneeling position, not even lifting his head to face Geralt.

“You’ve brought Stormguard. Welcome home, jarl.”

“Welcome home!” The others echoed loudly.

Geralt looked from them to the sword and back. “I only found this sword to return it to Kaer Mwrrach. I’m a witcher, not your jarl. Just want to drop it off and be on my way.”

One of the men lifted his face to Geralt. “Welcome to Mwrrach. Finding the sword’s made you our new jarl. That’s tradition here.”

Geralt was very familiar with Skelligans and their tenacity to tradition, so he tried to pick his next words carefully.

“Finding swords at the bottom of the ocean is no basis for a system of government.”

“It’s the basis for _our_ government!” Cried another man, also lifting his head to meet Geralt’s gaze.

“Maybe we should explain our traditions to our new jarl, so he can better understand us,” A voice spoke from just beyond the ring of men.

They parted and between them stood a short and stocky druid dressed in mossy colored robes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Janthe, and I work for this domain. Hopefully we can get you up to speed on everything and situated into your new role. You are?” 

“Geralt of Rivia.” He spoke slowly, eyeing those around him carefully.

“Lovely to meet you, Geralt. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see to finding you, er... suitable clothing before we convene more formally.” The druid eyed him up and down, though not disdainfully.

With no other viable option, Geralt trailed behind Janthe, allowing himself to be led to a changing closet of sorts. Janthe stood just outside the door while Geralt donned a pair of simple enough black pants and a loose-fitting but comfortable cream colored linen shirt. He also found a pair of Skelligan shoes that he slipped into easily. Not as nice as his boots or armor, but it was better than being naked.

Once he was dressed, Janthe led Geralt into a dining hall where a buffet of food awaited him. He was instructed to eat to his heart’s content while Janthe explained the situation.

“First and foremost, congratulations on becoming jarl, witcher. It truly is an impressive feat. We have been without our ruler for decades, if not centuries now.

“I know this must sound terribly strange to an outsider, but it really does have credence. You see, the sword you now carry, Stormguard, belonged to one of the first jarls of this region, centuries and centuries ago. He was a greatly adored man whose heart was full to burst with love for his people and his domain. He loved our life and our ways, but it had always saddened him to see so many warriors leave for battle and glory so far from home, when the domain needed protecting, only to never return. To him, protecting his home and his way of life was everything. He fought fiercely and defended this land in battle after battle.

“When the day finally came for this jarl to go to his ancestors, he took his eldest son’s hand and told him that Stormguard was his. He blessed the sword with his dying breath such that its owner will always wake up in his bed; in his home, safe, and able to protect his people.” Janthe paused. “I imagine this blessing is what brought you to us this morning.

“Anyway, the son then went on to become a jarl much like his father who never left this land and kept it safe.

“So it went for many generations, though the sword switched into different families’ hands from time to time, depending on who was ever deemed worthy enough to inherit it. 

“Stormguard was a true blessing to the land and the people, even if it may have been a curse to the warriors who wielded her. You see, ours are a people who long for battle, and many of our men bristle at the thought of missing out on glory, but this sword has also been able to prevent our rulers from dying foolishly in foreign battles when their wars are meant for this land.

“However, many years ago, there was a conflict, where foreigners came to claim this place as their own. During one of the battles, Stormguard was cast into the sea, and the jarl was slain not long after. Since then we have searched and scoured the depths as best we could to no avail, which is why the posting was eventually made. If none in our land was worthy enough to find it, we could honor the sword’s choice for a new jarl. This is where you come in, Geralt. Congratulations, again.”

Geralt looked up from his mug doing his best, and likely failing, to conceal his dour look.

“I mean you no disrespect, Janthe, but I have absolutely no interest in being a jarl. I have to continue on the path.”

Janthe, for their part, tapped a finger on their chin thoughtfully. “Well, you can probably stick around on a close by path to grounds, but…” They looked up to their jarl. “I don’t think you understand what you’ve entered, Geralt. That sword is yours. It won’t let you go further. It’s proven that already by your, um... _abrupt_ return home.”

He brooded. “Don’t call this place my home. I have no home.”

Jaskier’s voice then came suddenly from the door. “Ohh, _prrbbblt_ , stop with the broody brutish witcher routine, Geralt! No one wants to hear it.” The bard sauntered in as if he himself were the jarl of the keep and rested an arm against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I heard enough of this lovely druid’s story,” Jaskier gestured to Janthe, “to forgive you for so cruelly abandoning me this morning. Seems as though it wasn’t your fault, was it? Fun, magical sword pretty much teleported you here against your will? Very fun! Very good ballad material. Well, luckily for you I thought to come find you here! I was even kind enough to pack up all of our things and bring Roach along, too. She was very upset to find you gone in the morning, you know.”

Geralt stood. “I’m leaving.”

“Ah but you can’t now, can you? That sword will just bring you back, won’t it? That’s the idea I got from the legend, isn’t that right?” He winked at Janthe who nodded solemnly and then spoke.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s the case, jarl. Now that you own this sword, this is your home until your dying day. No matter where you may go, each morning you shall wake up in your bed here.”

“Can’t I get rid of it?” Geralt asked, growing more annoyed.

Janthe paused and pursed their lips in thought. “I’m unsure. I’ve never known someone to want to throw away power like this.”

“I have power in spades, but I have places to be.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt,” Jaskier interrupted. “You just finished a contract, if you think about it.You deserve a rest. Let’s stay here a day or so. At least rest before plotting your great escape from these lovely people. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it well enough to become the first witcher to die in his bed.”

Geralt could only grunt his acquiescence. It wasn’t as though they were just going to let him walk out of this place anyway. Might as well get a good bath and another meal in him before jumping ship.

-

One bath turned to two, which turned to several. The water was always hot enough to nearly scald, as Geralt liked it. There were soothing salts to relax his eternally tense muscles, as well as delicately scented oils which made his skin feel softer. He knew that witchers are never truly soft, but he could appreciate the smoothness of his skin for a little while.

It was the same with the meals. The dining hall was routinely filled to the brim with marinated and roasted meats, well seasoned vegetables, and creamy potatoes. There were breads and pies made available, even some foreign fruit. At one point, Geralt even worked up the courage to request a lemon cake one night.

Every evening, Geralt returned to the warm, cushy bed he’d woken up in that strange day. Every morning, he woke to the sight of Stormguard on the mantle where he’d left it.

They even gave him a crown of sorts. An idiotic thing, really, just a simple band of gold that went around his head. Jaskier had laughed loudly and teased him, “Oh but it matches your eyes, Geralt! It’s lovely on you.”

Geralt threw the thing into a drawer in his bedroom and didn’t look at it again.

The novelty began to fade within a week. Rather than being left to his devices to eat, bathe, train, and ride Roach to his heart’s content, Janthe made their presence known incrementally, trying to guide Geralt toward his “duties” as jarl.

Now, Skelligans were different from Continentals in terms of their nobility. Most notably (or at least important to Geralt), jarls like Crach, Eist, or Lugos wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the pomp and frill that so many Continental rulers wore, at least not on the islands. The tight, itchy doublets that barely allow for proper movement weren’t suited for a warrior’s lifestyle. They also weren’t fond of the two-faced “nuance,” or “subtlety” that went hand in hand with Continental noble dealings. 

No Skelligans were brash and bold and loud and a great many good things, but they were also so incredibly and infuriatingly devoted to their faith. To their traditions. To their families.

Janthe had taken to trying to prep him, teach him about the other families and their intricacies. It’s not the Geralt couldn’t memorize, it’s that he _didn’t fucking want to_. He didn’t care about these people. He had his own friends, his own family that he couldn’t be around. Why bother with these ones?

He didn’t care about their traditions. Why should he take part in some kind of seagull capturing competition every summer solstice? Why should he put trees inside the castle each winter? Why would he want to put paints on his face to go to battle?

Perhaps most scandalously, it was no secret that Geralt was fiercely agnostic. Sure, he had friends of the cloth, but they were well aware of his aversion to any sort of faith. Jaskier made jokes that his lack of belief would make him a perfect clergyman, but Geralt couldn’t imagine a worse fate. He had no interest in attending any sort of service, celebrating any banal feast days, or faking his way through worship.

Beyond all of the cultural frustrations, the worst of it was feeling trapped, confined to such a small area. Really, what island wouldn’t be small to a witcher when the whole world was regularly at his fingertips? Geralt was maddened.

He missed seeing the stars above his head each night and waking to the sound of birds in the forest in the morning. In the castle, all he saw were wooden beams; he woke to the same sloshing of the angry sea below that had sent him to sleep the night before.

In his frustration, he leaned more heavily on Jaskier, who seemed to thrive in this kind of environment. The bard performed each night, delighting in the raucous applause that his bawdiest songs received. He mingled with each family that stopped by, effortlessly remembering the ins and outs of their social graces and customs that Geralt was loath to perform.

He asked Jaskier to act in his place more than once, while he confined himself to the roof of the keep or ran off with Roach for a day’s adventure beyond the castle walls. Jaskier was happy enough to comply, thoroughly enjoying the interaction and praise, as well as having the opportunity to prove himself indispensable to Geralt. It also helped that it gave him the opportunity to slip his sausage into more than a few Skelligan pantries.

It took very little time for Janthe to notice this and corner Geralt after a meal.

“You’re avoiding us, jarl,” They said in a monotone.

“I told you already, I’m not meant to be here. When Jaskier wears himself out playing whatever game it is he’s got going on, we’re going to leave.”

Janthe sighed. “I’ve told you already that won’t work.”

“I’m going to make it work.” He paused. “You mentioned the possibility of the sword passing to the mightiest warrior?”

“Well, yes, but--” Janthe started.

“Then I’ll host a brawl and take part. Good old fashioned fistfighting competition. Sword goes to the winner.”

“You can’t expect a normal man to take down a witcher with his fists!”

Geralt snorted and turned to walk away. “Normal men seem to think that they can all the time. Maybe one of them will be right. Plan the brawl, Janthe. I want to leave Skellige.”

-

Jaskier, later that day, shared Janthe’s same reservations when he met with Geralt in his bedroom. He sat strewn dramatically across the thickly brocaded arm chair by the hearth, eyeing the sword on the mantle.

“You know you’ll massacre them, Geralt. You’ve won every fist fighting contest across the continent. You even beat a rock troll in a fist fight just a few islands over!”

Geralt grunted and rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have a bad day.” 

“You’re going to throw the fight!” Jaskier gasped, reading Geralt’s intention easily.

“Nothing slips by you, Jaskier.”

“You know, I’m fairly certain this won’t work. I mean, this thing that’s trapping you here is a blessing or a curse or something. It can probably sense intention, you know?”

“I’ve broken spells by throwing fights before. I don’t see why it won’t work now.”

This was the way in which the White Wolf of Rivia was thoroughly sacked, smashed, beaten, and bruised by all manner of Skelligan brutes hoping to win his sword and his jarldom.

By the time he’d been felled, Geralt had a bloody nose, a split lip, and a rapidly swelling black eye. The man standing over him didn’t look much better, but he was at least standing. He bellowed out a victory cry before falling to his knees.

Geralt coughed up his congratulations as the two were helped back to their feet. He clasped the man’s hand and bequeathed to him Stormguard.

Within a few hours, thanks to the witcher’s healing ability, Geralt and Jaskier sauntered out of the keep, the former delightfully and quietly smug, the latter dubiously optimistic.

They made it to the southwestern shore of the island before stopping for the night for camp. In the morning, the plan was to find a boat to get them back to Ard Skellige then back to the mainland. 

The last thing Jaskier said that evening was, “You know, I’m very glad that the curse-blessing-sword only took _you_ to that keep back then. If it took you _and_ Roach, I probably wouldn’t have bothered to go find you.”

“Fuck off, bard…”

-

The morning found Geralt tucked snugly against a form, which he very vaguely imagined to be Jaskier who sidled up next to him in his sleep again, a solid weight on his chest. 

The reality of the situation hit him before he even opened his eyes, though.

Geralt was in that same fucking bed with the sword laying perfectly across his chest once more. The man who had “beaten” him yesterday was snoring softly at his side.

He cursed loudly.

Luckily, the sound of his voice was enough to wake his “successor” who had the good sense to get away from the bed and the witcher as quickly as possible.

Jaskier arrived several hours later, a little disheveled from the road but still smug anyway.

“So the great White Wolf can’t trick a sword.”

“Kiss my ass, Jaskier.”

-

Geralt’s next attempt to escape the sword and the keep was met with even less enthusiasm. After getting nearly a full day’s rest and ensuring similar treatment for Roach, he set out at the tiniest spark of the light of dawn. He rode Roach as far as he could take her, took a boat with her to Ard Skellig, and rode her toward the eastern coast of the isle.

The hope was to get as far away from Kaer Mwrrach as possible, so Roach was ridden hard for much longer than normal, though never beyond her limit.

They rode through the darkness past wolves and bears and all manner of creatures, with the horse skillfully dodging and outrunning them all. Geralt felt flickers of hope when he noticed that the sky was just starting to turn from a murky black to a lighter purple as the sun began its ascent. If he could make it to dawn without being in that damnable bed, he would break the curse.

Not a moment later, Geralt and Roach alike were swept away by a tempestuous wind flurry and deposited soundly into his bedroom. The sword landed with a soft clang on top of his medallion as it pressed him into his bed. Geralt grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.

Roach, for her part, seemed to take well to teleportation and chose to chew on a curtain.

-

Fuck it, if Geralt couldn’t leave because of the sword, he figured the next best way to get away from it was to send it back to its watery grave. Jaskier watched from the door frame as he chucked the sword out the window and down to the waters below.

“So are you going to stay here tonight to see if it comes back, or will you run away again?”

“I’ll leave, obviously. Are you not coming with me?”

Jaskier snorted. “Geralt, my dear, you know I love you with all of my heart, but if I have to climb down this mountain with you one more time, following you on a magical getaway mission with a plan that’s bound to fail, just for you to disappear in the morning, leaving me to pack and climb back up again on my own, I will absolutely gouge out your eyes. I’m staying here with Roach. She’s still not happy about how you treated her last time. I know. She and I talked about it.”

Geralt grunted.

He didn’t get far that night, and when he woke up in the morning, he was back in bed with the sword perched upon his chest.

Jaskier was sleeping comfortably on the other side of the bed, knowing he’d return.

Geralt wanted to pull his hair out.

Jaskier just snuggled up to him.

-

Janthe must have had the patience of a saint because they still showed no signs of anger, just quiet anxiety, as they continued to meet with Geralt.

“I really wish I could help you more, but this is a fruitless endeavor. Please take this as a blessing, Geralt. You will want for nothing here.”

“I want my fucking freedom back.”

“Freedom to what?” They said, doing their best to remain composed. “Lie awake cold and hungry beneath the stars because another town kicked you out or refused to pay you?”

Geralt did his best to conceal the flinch. Janthe wasn’t entirely wrong, but they didn’t understand. They went on.

“You have something very special in this keep that I do not imagine witchers get in very many places at all: acceptance. I know you dislike traditions and find it meaningless, but our tradition demands honor be placed upon the owner of the sword. Your sword. Take its blessing as a blessing, not a curse.”

“I have...family out there. _” He had to get to Ciri eventually._ “Things I need to do that can’t keep me in a castle every day.”

“Can this place not include your family?” Janthe argued. “Our first jarl, Stormguard’s first owner… It is said that to him, everyone in the domain was family. We could summon your family here as well.” 

Geralt very nearly barked out a mean laugh at the idea of bringing his family to a frozen pit on an island, much less keeping them there.

Not missing the almost-reaction, Janthe sighed again. “A jarldom needs a jarl, Geralt. It is the only way that it has any hope of surviving the civil wars across the country. We’ve only just barely scraped by this past while, and mostly through means of deception and trickery, which isn’t the Skelligan way, you know. 

“Our sword chose you, so we are more or less stuck with one another. I’m just trying to make things as painless as possible.” They bowed lowly.

“Please at least consider summoning them. Maybe family beyond Jaskier is what you need.” With that Janthe excused themself and departed to attend to the duties Geralt was avoiding that couldn’t be given to the bard.

Sitting in the silence of the hall, Geralt almost felt guilty. He was avoiding responsibility, maybe even destiny, like this. The people of this jarldom didn’t deserve that. Janthe didn’t deserve him. Jaskier certainly didn’t deserve to have nobility thrust back on his shoulders when he’d worked so hard to avoid going back to Lettenhove, even if he behaved as though he didn’t mind acting in Geralt’s place.

He looked out the window, down at the familial cemetery which stood as an outcropping from the courtyard and overlooked more of the water. Even if Skelligans burned their bodies on boats sent out to sea, they still created memorials.

Witchers didn’t get graves. They didn’t get headstones with carved epitaphs or flowers placed lovingly upon them.

Maybe he could write to Vesemir, see what the old man thought of wintering in a castle that wasn’t crumbling to pieces before his eyes.

_But what about Ciri?_

The thought of the girl always hit him like a cold bucket of water. He couldn’t abandon her.

He needed to break this curse or blessing or whatever the fuck it truly was.

Geralt looked back out at the headstones.

Maybe he could summon someone. Someone who could release him.

-

Geralt set to work in the evening, after the courtyard had cleared of the rabble rousers who drank until they passed out on the long wooden tables or the well-worn earth beneath their feet.

He sat himself on his knees in front of the grave of the first jarl, Stormguard at his side. He drew symbols in the soil and spoke the words of a spell he’d learned long ago to summon a spectre. While not always successful, depending on if the spirit was one who was wont to wander, he figured that there was a chance of it working here, especially given everyone’s claim that the jarl had a proclivity toward the land.

Once he’d finished his work, he noticed a faint glow about the headstone. Good. Geralt shut his eyes and waited. If the spirit wanted to be seen, he would speak first.

“Well, well… I must say I didn’t expect to ever find a witcher in my domain, much less have one as my successor!” The sound of the jarl’s voice was tinny, echoed, and distant as if spoken through a megascope, but his timbre was rich and warm. “But I must say, I’ve never seen a man so capable as a warrior, a protector. I’m glad to see them in your hands.”

Geralt was silent. He didn’t open his eyes; he remained still in his seated position.

“I’ve been watching you, lad.” The spectre said. “You aren’t happy here. Want to leave.”

“I’m honored to have had this position, but I cannot stay.”

“Well, then, that’s a shame, isn’t it? Because my lands need a good ruler, and even if you aren’t one of “us,” necessarily, you’ve proven yourself more adept than any other, and for that you have to stay.”

“I can’t. There are things. Places where I’m needed. People who need me.”

“Well, boy,” The spectre’s voice reverberated a little louder, a little darker. “My people, your people here, need you too.”

“I have family...out in the world.” Ciri, Yen, Triss, Zoltan... Even Jaskier when he chose to part ways with the witcher from time to time. Not to mention any of the other witchers. “I need to be able to get to them if they need me.”

Geralt wouldn’t speak on how utterly awful he found life stuck inside a castle. How hunting such a small space would never satisfy. How he longed for changes in scenery and creatures.

The spectre took a long time to speak again. “A jarl who has no love for his land or his people is a poor leader… You cannot love the cage that traps you.

“But witcher, my people need a leader. They need a capable protector and a figurehead around whom they might rally their banners. For now that has to be you.”

“Why can they not choose for themselves?”

“Let the people choose? Hm… It _is_ the way we pick our kings on Ard Skellige.”

“They’re smart and capable. My time here has shown me that,” Or at least his time with Janthe did. If nothing else Janthe could probably remain as jarl. “And who would love your land and people more? A foreigner or someone with ties to the land, who has lived here?”

The spectre seemed to think on that. He was quiet for a very long moment. Geralt was almost tempted to open his eyes to see if he'd gone. When the jarl spoke again, it was soft. “You know, I only blessed the sword as a way to help them. Keep a leader alive when so many warriors were quick to storm off to their deaths…”

“You Skelligans are very good at that.”

“Watch it, Witcher.”

Geralt smirked with eyes still shut and held back a chuckle. “Apologies… The blessing though?”

“I will remove it if we can find a way for the people to choose their new jarl.”

“I had the idea of a contest of might in order to pass on the sword to another.”

“I saw your attempt at losing, witcher. It was pitiful.”

He ignored the jab. “What if they did something similar? A tournament of different competitions of strength, skill and wit. The winner can rule as jarl. It would prove to the people who is the most capable… And you can watch them. See the progress your people make in your stead.”

The spectre went quiet again. “I have reservations, witcher… But I am an old man. I’m dead. I’ve seen a lot, and maybe my ancient ideas won’t work for all time. They certainly didn’t work when Stormguard was thrust into the sea for decades… Perhaps it is time for a change. Take the idea to the people, see what they do with it.”

“I will. Should this work, your people will have a better leader shortly.”

-

Geralt explained everything to Janthe who was happy to get the tournament organized following the region’s traditions and values. He would not participate himself, and it would be far more than just a brawl. While Skelligans weren’t the sort for pomp and circumstance, this would be quite the event.

“I think you’ve stumbled upon something good here, Geralt,” They said. “I know you don’t care for the life we could provide here. If this works...hopefully we can all be satisfied.”

The tourney was organized in a matter of days and took place within the week.

Geralt sat as a figurehead at the front of the whole affair, though he truthfully didn’t do very much at all. Jaskier stood at his side as the tourney’s barker, making announcements and playful rhymes to keep spectators entertained between rounds. 

Janthe proved themself to be the star of the show by managing it all, tallying scores, and eventually whispering the name of the victor into Geralt’s ear. His one job would be to declare his true successor to the people.

They heralded the winner with shouts of joy and praise, as well as round after round of honey sweetened liquors. Their new jarl, a young woman with cropped short blond hair, was lifted and carried by the celebrating clansmen who rallied about her.

Dandelion sang her praises and performed song after song well into the evening, even after most of the celebrations had quieted.

Janthe approached Geralt before he slipped away from it all. As it turned out, the people of the jarldom were so taken with the idea of appeasing their former rulers with their tourney that it was decided that they would repeat the competition every few years, effectively establishing a new tradition to appease their forebearers. To show them that they were a capable people who would remain strong for generations to come.

Each time a new jarl would be chosen in this way, allowing for some diversification in rulership while also ensuring that someone might stay home to protect the land, without being burdened by the notion of never being able to sail away again. 

Geralt relayed the message to the spectre, who was pleased. He had already developed a fondness for the new jarl and assured Geralt that he would be able to depart whenever he was ready. The blessing had been revoked.

-

Every night he had stayed in the keep, Geralt had Stormguard placed carefully on a rock over the mantle, a perfect place to display a sword of its caliber and meaning.

Each night when he’d attempted to leave, he woke with the sword pressing itself softly but resolutely against his chest, pommel to his chin, blade down his torso. It was as though the sword itself longed to belong to someone, just as the jarl longed to belong to his people and only his people.

After packing up his things and getting Roach ready to depart, Geralt went upstairs to the bedroom that had been his but never truly his. He took the one item he’d cast into a drawer and removed Stormguard from the mantle.

He brought them down to the jarl’s headstone. The sword was set firmly into the soil, upright and proud. Upon her hilt, Geralt balanced the golden band. They belonged to the jarl and his people. 

That night he slept under the stars and woke up to the sound of bird song.


End file.
